


True Colors

by DameRuth



Series: Iron Sharpening Iron [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master begins settling into a drum-free existence on the TARDIS . . . but domesticity isn't exactly on his mind.  Follows immediately after "Shouting at the Sky"; spoilers for EoT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Well, folks, two stories makes it a 'Verse. A short snippet for now, as the Master begins settling in; in fact, I think the greater story in this 'Verse will be told in short bits. Which is a freaking relief, given how bad I am with the long, epic stories . . . :P ;) Thanks to Canaan/canaana and Yamx for the beta!

The Master smiled as he turned his face up into the hot spray of the shower. He'd chosen water over sonic because he liked the way the impact of droplets on his skin brought out the sting of the new bruises he sported, while at the same time the heat soothed deeper aches in muscles gone stiff after however long spent in a renewal tank.

The smile threatened to become a grin as he thought back on the way he'd acquired those bruises. He really wouldn't have expected the Doctor to be that rough, but clearly the other Time Lord had gone through some changes over the centuries, changes that made him more willing to cut loose and give in to his less-refined impulses. As a result, their recent session on the medlab floor had been exhilarating, with a keen sense of freedom in not having to restrain oneself; humans were easy to dominate, but ultimately frustrating in their fragility. They tended to break just when things were getting really fun.

When the last of the cloying, sticky-slippery renewal solution was finally scrubbed from his skin and hair, the Master exited the shower and took his time appreciating the luxurious towels and dressing gown supplied for his use. After his stint as one of the homeless, it was gratifying to be living back at the standard he deserved. Clearly, the Doctor had given his ship instructions to treat their guest well, since the Master suspected the TARDIS wouldn't have been anywhere near as accommodating, left to her own devices. From the tense underlying psychic atmosphere in the room, she hadn't forgiven him for the whole Paradox Machine incident.

"Tch. Still upset about that?" he cooed, patting the Arcturian marble of the countertop next to the sink as surveyed the shaving tools arrayed there. "How petty." The ship's background hum went a little deeper for a moment in reply, almost a warning growl. He noticed she'd given him a straight razor: gleaming, pearl-handled, of the finest quality and absolutely whisper-sharp. Hoping he'd cut himself, no doubt. He chuckled and set to shaving, finishing without spilling a single drop of blood. He fancied he caught a flicker of disappointment at that, and he grinned as he stropped the blade with finicky precision. Then he studied his reflection in the mirror with approval. _Much_ better. His hair hadn't grown appreciably, so he must not have spent too much time in the tank. He pursed his lips and considered whether to return to this body's natural coloring. The blonde look might have begun as a crude disguise attempt, but it was beginning to grow on him. And the current Doctor seemed to have a thing for blondes.

That thought made him laugh out loud, and decided the matter. Blonde it was. He hoped the Doctor would get the joke.

The next concern was clothing. He had no interest in recovering the clothes he'd last worn; in fact, he rather hoped the Doctor had burnt all of it. Something new was in order. He _could_ wander the corridors in his dressing gown, searching for the wardrobe he was sure existed, but he preferred to take the direct route, and, not incidentally, test the boundaries of his welcome here. Stepping to a blank portion of the wall he laid one hand flat against it, between two of the ubiquitous rondels, and silently commanded a door to appear. Grudgingly the TARDIS complied, and he grinned in triumph. Oh, the Doctor was rolling out the red carpet indeed, for all that his ship was thinking that she'd be more than happy to make this door open out onto the naked Vortex and pitch the Master to his doom.

"You wouldn't dare," the Master mocked, throwing the door wide open. For all his confidence, there was a delightful instant of spiking adrenaline as he called the TARDIS's bluff. But instead of the twisting chaos of the Vortex, all that lay beyond was a huge, multi-level room filled with racks and racks of clothing.

"_Good_ girl," he chirped, patting the doorjamb as he danced through and began searching for something to wear.

He quickly discovered that his tastes had changed slightly. Interesting. The deafening silence left behind by the loss of the drums was so overwhelming he hadn't stopped to consider the possibility of accompanying personality changes when that massive constant was removed. He didn't find the prospect particularly disturbing; a Time Lord's psychology was primed to accept change. Simple enough to behave as if this were a new regeneration, for all he might be stuck with the same face.

Suits were apparently still the order of the day, and preferably black, but the one that finally caught his eye had a different cut than his preferred Saxon-suit: thirty-eighth century, sleekly tailored, in subtly glossy meta-silk. Choosing a shirt was more difficult; nothing seemed quite right. Because the style of the era demanded cufflinks, he decided to search some out. Maybe once he had those chosen, the correct shirt would become apparent.

Sorting through the chaotic mass of jewelry and trinkets from innumerable times and cultures was slow work, but he eventually found a pair of silver links in a love-knot pattern that made him laugh. Let the Doctor make of that what he would. The Master was slipping the links into the pocket of his dressing gown when a flash of orange caught his eye. Intrigued, he reached out and retrieved a heavy brooch that turned out to be exactly what he'd thought it was. He blinked at it, genuinely surprised.

A huge, round cabochon jacinth, as large in diameter as the tip of the Master's thumb, set in platinum and carved in reverse intaglio with the Prydonian Seal. The particular shade of flame-orange was unmistakable: what he held could only be _the_ Jacinth, part of the semi-sacred regalia of the Prydonian Chapter Head, used to fasten the collar of his (or her) ceremonial robes on formal occasions.

"_Really_, Doctor!" he said aloud, wondering what path the stone had taken to get here. Had there been some last-ditch field promotion in the final days of the War, with the Doctor taking on the position of Chapter Head? Or (more likely) had it been filched out of some sentimental impulse before the Doctor's final flight, only to languish here in this careless mixture of junk and treasure?

Not that it mattered. The Master hefted the brooch in his hand, a slow smile starting to spread across his lips. By the arcane mathematics of Time Lord society – his superior marks at the Academy in particular, since he and the Doctor were of similar age and family status – the Master was now the highest-ranking Prydonian in existence. The Jacinth was his by right, should he choose to claim it.

_I think I've just found my look,_ he thought, followed immediately by, _There should be a ring . . ._ Filled with gleeful enthusiasm, he scrabbled through the motley collection until he found it: a matching carved jacinth, half the size of the one in the brooch, also set in platinum. From there, it was a quick job to finish choosing the rest of his ensemble

Fully dressed, he examined himself in the full-length mirror: black suit paired with a grass-red band-collar shirt, the Jacinth pinned over the top button. The matching ring was on his hand, the love-knot cufflinks in place, and, to finish, he wore polished black half-boots of a style to match the suit. Oh, yes. He grinned at his reflection. Only one thing left. He turned on his heel and strode back through the open doorway to the bathroom, where he retrieved the straight razor. Nothing like something sharp and concealed to accessorize an outfit, and the razor was a pleasant, unobtrusive weight in his pocket.

Still grinning, he closed the door in the wall, thought of where he wanted it to lead next, then opened it and stepped through into the control room where the Doctor was waiting, pretending to calibrate things.

The Master closed the door and it melted back into the wall. "So," he said to the Doctor in a bright, too-cheerful voice. "The new me. What do you think?" He executed a quick spin in place, arms held out palms-up in a showing-off gesture. "Worth waiting for, eh?" As he came to a halt facing the Doctor again, he was watching very carefully, and saw the Doctor's eyes go to the Jacinth, saw the thinning of his lips in reaction as the Doctor's usually mobile features went stony in disapproval.

But, _but_, he said absolutely nothing: no argument, no dispute. The Master's insides convulsed with barely-restrained amusement, knowing that he'd scored a very large point. Oh, yes, this relationship held all kinds of potential entertainment value.

"Where to, now?" the Master continued, slipping his hands in his pockets and sauntering towards the control panel. "Assuming, of course, that I'm not under permanent house arrest and you were actually _serious_ about that whole 'traveling the stars together' schtick."

"I was serious," the Doctor said, all po-faced and haughty, increasing the Master's amusement. He nodded towards the panel in front of him. "The main flight controls are isomorphically locked to my signature, but you can take over the auxiliary controls."

"Oh, _may_ I?" the Master asked, clapping his hands together and letting his voice scale up into a girlish squeal. He skipped into position. "You still haven't said where we're going," he added, in a more normal tone.

"Randomizer," the Doctor said, and there was _just_ a hint of challenging spark in his eyes, the faintest shadow of a smile around the corners of his mouth. "My favorite way to fly."

The Master rolled his eyes. "It would be."

"Think you can handle it?" the Doctor asked, and the challenge and the almost-smile were stronger.

"I can take whatever you dish out," the Master responded, slowly and deliberately, letting the good cheer drain out of his voice and expression.

That earned him a sharp-edged grin from the Doctor. "Well, then," he said. "_Allons-y!_"

The Master would have groaned at the simple-minded catchphrase but the Doctor threw a switch and the TARDIS went mad, bucking like a wild thing, and he needed all his attention for his balance and the controls. Almost against his will, he found himself grinning again, this time at the sheer recklessness of the Doctor's piloting. The Doctor's particular brand of insanity hadn't decreased over the years; if anything, it was worse than ever.

The Master was looking forward to finding out how deep that crazy ran. Possibly far enough to make all of this worthwhile.

He hoped so. That would be _fun_.


End file.
